The Pillow Substitute
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: "John was still, John was quiet; John was innocent and untouched like crisp, new fallen snow." Sherlock can't find the Union Jack cushion, but upon searching for it, he finds something he didn't even know he was looking for.


A/N: This is told from Sherlock's point of view, first-person. Hope you all enjoy, thanks again for being so lovely ^^

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Of all the places in the universe, of all the possible spaces and coordinates, out of every single area, somehow, all lines converge, all planets align, every last roads leads precisely to 221B Baker Street, and specifically, the sofa that resides within its walls. When I am there, lying across it like a sheet spread tightly over a new mattress, everything makes sense. My head is clear and comfortable, my limbs are stretched to the point where I don't need to acknowledge them, and there is nothing left for me to do but think.

There was, however, one evening in particular when the sofa was defying the laws of the universe. It was _uncomfortable_. I had been sprawled over the dull, sinking cushions, with my head resting firmly on two thin pillows, fingers towered below my chin, when an unwelcome sensation reared through my neck. I was right in the middle of my mind palace, sorting through raw data, extracting variables and rifling through possibilities, and suddenly there it was: _pain_. I blinked and turned my head to the side, but the ache only got sharper, more stabbing, like a blade running right down the middle of my neck. I pushed aside the information I was organizing and focused on the growing stiffness at the back of my head.

Sitting up a bit, I wrapped my hand around the base of my neck, trying to ease some of the sting, but it was to no avail. I realized I must have been laying there for an unnatural amount of hours, no doubt the proper makings for sore muscles, and I needed to alleviate the distraction and get back to the work.

I weighed my options and, remembering that there was no better place on earth to think than that sofa, decided to find an alternative method in making myself more comfortable. Eventually I settled on the simple solution of adding another pillow behind me for support. I turned my head sharply to the red armchair.

"John!" I shouted, quite authoritatively, to the empty chair.

"_John!_" I tried again, louder if perhaps he was in the kitchen and I couldn't see from where I'd been laying.

When there was again no response, I blearily checked my watch, finding it to be just after two in the morning. I supposed at some time John had retreated to his bed for the evening. I wasn't going to bother myself texting him, and so if he wasn't going to get the Union Jack cushion for me I presumed I would be forced to retrieve it myself.

I sprang up from the sofa like a jack out of the box, which was perhaps a bit too quickly, for I had to stop for a moment to clasp my neck again. It was all getting so tedious and I wanted desperately to return to my thinking, but as I approached the chair that the pillow usually rested in, I was utterly unnerved to find it wasn't there.

I scoffed, turning swiftly around, examining all other corners of the room to discover the pillow nowhere in sight.

In hindsight, I could have very well ventured into my bedroom and retrieved one of the pillows from my bed, but at that moment, there was just something about that cushion in particular that I craved. It was the perfect size, small enough to fit perfectly in the crook of my neck, and not so large that I'd be swallowed by it and become even more distracted. It had a certain kind of texture, unlike cotton; it was canvas-like, ticker and offering more support. I also enjoyed the _tuff_ sort of sound it made when John would pat it lightly before sitting down.

I wanted to hear that sound, I wanted to feel the thin weaving beneath my fingers, the cool material bleeding softly into my hair, and more than anything, I wanted to _think_, and I couldn't do that with a stiff neck. Deciding to waste no more time scavenging for the cushion, I trotted up the steps to the one person who always knew where everything was.

"John," I tapped as lightly as I could on the wood of his door, saying his name just above a whisper. There was no response from the other side, so I took the liberty of letting myself in.

My plan was to rouse John from his sleep and demand he tell me the whereabouts of the cushion so I could get back to the sofa as quickly as possible, but upon entering the room, my jaw went slack and my mind stopped, for just a moment.

I stared like a deer in headlights at the bed. John was lying on the farther side of the mattress, leaving a space large enough for another human to occupy. He was resting on his side, facing me, eyes softly closed shut. The blanket was ruffled right up to his waist, exposing the cream-coloured, long-sleeve thermal shirt that clung loosely to his frame. The part that made my head go limp was the fact that I had found the Union Jack cushion, huddled snugly in his arms. He was pressed close to the pillow, holding it like one might hold a lover or a dear friend in need of comfort.

His face was lightly squished where it rested on the edge of the pillow, his eyes relaxed and softened with sleep. His eyes, I noticed, had deep grey bags underneath, highlighted slightly by the dull contrast of shadows cast by his small lamp. The ashen half-circles under his lids suggested he'd been lacking a good amount of sleep for quite some time, and yet, lying there, hugging the pillow next to him, he looked as if he were enjoying the most deep and blissful sleep of his life.

I inched forward, not entirely certain where I wanted to go. The ancient floorboards underneath my feet squealed in pain as I took another cautious step toward the bed. A part of me wanted to lunge at John, yank the pillow out of his grip and go back to my mind palace, but some other part of me, some foreign region I was unfamiliar with, was making my feet go further, until I was at the very edge of the side of his bed.

Curiously, I analyzed his sleeping form for a short while longer, before forgetting about the pillow, forgetting about the kink in my neck, forgetting the sofa, and even my mind palace. For once, I let my subconscious do the work, and I found myself sitting down on the mattress.

It was at that moment that I realized I had never seen John sleep before. I'd cataloged so many things about him since I met him; I knew the meaning of almost every facial twitch, every huff of breath, every fluctuation in tone of voice, but this was new, this was different.

John was still, John was quiet; John was innocent and untouched like crisp, new fallen snow. All of his history, his demeanor and opinions, they were all washed away, silenced by slumber. I could deduce an infinite number of things about John while he was awake, and I had been convinced that I'd deduced it all, but now there was a different story being told in the way he slept.

I looked closer at the way he clung to the pillow, the way it made it him look so content, and it was then that I realized the cushion had been missing from the sitting room for days. I didn't have a need for it until that night, so I had no reason to acknowledge it before. John must have been cuddling with it like a child for a few nights, but I didn't understand why.

I was slightly startled when John suddenly stirred. His face winced a bit, making his nose scrunch up just the slightest, and his grip on the pillow tightened momentarily, as if he were making sure it was still there. He was treating it like it were a lifeline, like at any moment it would get up and walk away. And then I understood.

John was lonely. He was having trouble sleeping because he longed for affection, for closeness and security. It was a wonder, really, that behind his combat trained eyes, behind his steady, pistol-wielding fingers, underneath his experienced scrubs and even buried under a scar-painted shoulder, lay a man who desired nothing more than warmth and comfort.

The pillow, in my opinion, was a lousy substitute. It was inanimate. It didn't radiate heat or reciprocate feelings of affection. And, it seemed to me, that the universe was conspiring something very odd that night. It was stirring something in my chest, something heavy and unfamiliar. And so, _without thinking_, I leaned forward and slowly slid the cushion out of John's grasp.

He didn't wake, didn't protest, his arm only slumped down with a dull plop onto the mattress. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he knew something were missing. And, in that moment, I decided something _was _missing. By that point I had already lost part of my normal rational logic, and perhaps it was the odd hour, perhaps it was the lack of sleep on my part, but there was no portion of me that could have denied how utterly _warm_ John looked.

And so very slowly, very carefully, I slid myself under his covers, shuffled closer to his sleeping frame, and gingerly draped his arm over my waist. I was frozen. It was as if I had suddenly been snapped out of hypnosis and was only then aware of where I was. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't know what to do, or, more importantly, what John would do.

Then, in contrast to almost every scenario I flashed in my mind, John huddled closer to me, nuzzling his head in my chest and tightening his grip on my side. He let out a long, contented sigh, full of relief and comfort. In perhaps response, I raised my arm and snaked it around his cotton-covered waist. I was most surprised by the heat; the pure warmth that simply radiated between our forms, it was astounding and, oddly curious. It was making all of the nagging thoughts in my never-ceasing mind seem to melt away. I cast aside juvenile judgments; rid myself of all assumptions, all questions, and even the aspect of time slipped aside. I didn't think about what I'd been doing, or what the next day would bring, I just focused on then and there, on John and I.

My eyes dripped closed, my shoulders relaxed and there was absolutely no stiff pain prodding at my neck. I realized that I could _think_ again. And so I set my mind to it; I ventured back into the never ending halls of my mind palace, and went through all the information I was attempting to sort on the sofa.

So on that night, of all the places in the universe, of all the possible spaces and coordinates, out of every single area, somehow, all lines converged, all the planets aligned, every last road lead precisely to 221B Baker Street, and more specifically, the arms of John Watson. When I was lying there, being held closely, listening to his subtle intakes of breath, everything made sense.

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A/N: I kind of like how the only dialogue is Sherlock saying "John", which I'm fairly certain I did on purpose, and is weird because normally I love writing witty banter. Anyhow, hope you enjoyed this short little thing and if you've any comments or suggestions reviews are super helpful :3


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